


Everyone Wants Something (I'm Wanted By Everyone But You)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She will do anything—absolutely <em>anything</em>—for that girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone Wants Something (I'm Wanted By Everyone But You)

Title: Everyone Wants Something (I'm Wanted By Everyone But You)  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2.  
Summary: She will do anything—absolutely _anything_ —for that girl.  
A/N: Title from Joshua Radin's "Wanted."

  
It’s a little bit deranged, but no matter what, she will always, _always_ do what Brittany asks.

Don’t ask her when it started, or why, or how. With anyone else on this earth, Santana is all about the Head Bitchin’, putting idiots in their place and low-browing anyone who staggers onto her path. She’s a train, a tank, a beast. Half the school is wary of her, and the other half is _terrified_.

Except Brittany.

And it has always been this way. At least, as far back as she can recall. One of the first times they spoke—back in third grade, before Puck had his mohawk, or Rachel ever even considered a nose job, before Artie found himself in that wheelchair, or Quinn (ahem, _Lucy_ ) Fabray even existed on the Lima Radar)—Brittany managed to find a baby bird. Well, Brittany noticed it, anyway. Santana supposes she was the one who actually found it.

By assuming it was a mushroom in the grass and accidentally booting it a foot in the air.

Brittany had shrieked with displeasure, grabbing Santana fiercely around her then-scrawny bicep and squeezing until the circulation all but stopped. She had pointed madly with her free hand, shouting something about Woody the Woodpecker (directly into Santana’s ear canal, no less, which would have gotten anyone else punched). Five minutes later, Santana was cradling a stunned baby sparrow in her sweatshirt, standing anxiously by as Brittany shrilly explained the whole situation to their teacher.

Just like that, they had a new class pet.

Apparently, teachers didn’t have a great talent for ignoring Brittany either.

Suddenly, every day began and ended with the pair of them checking in on that stupid little bird. Suddenly, they were responsible for urging it back into good health. Suddenly, Santana was listening to everything Brittany said, zeroing in with deadly accuracy on every hand upon her skin, every nudge of bony shoulder against her own, every smile.

God, that smile has made her do the stupidest things.

Not that Brittany hasn’t done things for her as well. Of course she has. She has made well-meaning t-shirts, and suffered the wrath of Sue Sylvester, and kept secrets Santana knows she would have given up in a heartbeat. Brittany has done plenty.

But Santana—

Santana joined the Cheerios for Brittany. Well, maybe not solely—the power was what really counted, keeping Fabray on her toes—but be honest about it: it took Santana _years_ to develop the dance gene Brittany was born with. _Years_. Brittany walked into that tryout and nailed it in a ten-minute routine. Santana had to threaten six other freshman girls into chickening out before Sylvester would even look at her twice. But she did it, because Brittany never would have made it on her own—and there was no way in hell she was going to watch her friend get torn out of that uniform.

Santana joined Glee Club for Brittany. Yeah, okay, maybe it was Coach’s idea at first, and maybe Fabray led the assault, but in terms of sticking around for the sake of actually enjoying herself? Brittany loved it. Brittany loved being able to throw on a pop song and just rock out, heedless of judges and diet shakes and the multitude of insults Sylvester is so steadily prone to. Brittany was _in_ love with the idea, so Santana stayed. She ran her mouth, and she pissed off every person in that choir room time and time again, but she stayed—and now she’s kind of in love with it too.

Even this, what she’s doing now—it’s all for Brittany. The bringing Kurt back thing. The blackmailing Karofsky. The shirt she’s wearing now, a size too small (she thinks Brittany might have tried to wash it, and Brittany happens to be notoriously terrible at laundry), stretched uncomfortably across her breasts. And further back: the snatching of Finn Hudson’s V-card (Brittany told her to), the tendency to smile at Rachel Berry during her long-winded solos (Brittany asked her to be nice), the potential for lesbian crucifixion in the form of a Stevie Nicks song, pouring her heart out and out and out on that stool (Brittany wanted it, Brittany asked for it, Brittany needed to know for sure).

She thinks if Brittany were to ask her to build her a house, Santana would be on the internet the very next day, Googling blueprints and ordering two-by-fours from Amazon.com.

She’s losing her mind.

She watches the performance on that stage, her friends (gag, ew, but yeah, that’s kind of her reality now) cavorting around as Gaga’s hit-or-miss anthem of individuality blares through the auditorium. She watches Kurt’s hair try its damndest to defy gravity (he’s been taking whole trees from Jesse St. James’ book, if you ask her, and he’s doing it better than that Vocal Asshole ever did; judging by the tense leering Dave is doing at her side, she figures he’s got the Angry Closeted Gay vote too). She watches Fabray shake the ass Daddy and years of starvation apparently gave her. She watches Finn wriggle around like a moron, very nearly decking Sam in the process—not that Blondie gives a shit, judging by the smile that reaches his eyebrows. She watches Rachel push her chest forward, proud as Patti LuPone at being Uniquely and Jewish-Stupendously _Her_.

How sickeningly sweet.

Most of all, she watches Brittany, swaying her hips and twisting her hands like she’s putting on the world’s sexiest magic show. Santana waits for the big finale, for Brittany to pull the disappearing act of a lifetime, but when the music finally dies, there’s no change. That ache in the center of her chest, the one that makes her feel small and fragile and scared to death, hasn’t moved an inch.

She’s going to have to up her game, she knows, and she’s going to have to do it soon. Brittany wraps herself half around Quinn and half around the cripple in the wheelchair, head thrown back with mirth, and all Santana can think is, _That needs to be me._

Not should. Not used to be. Needs. Now.

She isn’t sleeping right, she hasn’t been able to choke down meals the way she’d like. Her life has turned into a shamble of a bad 90s pop song. She’s losing it.

For God’s sake, she is dating _Dave Karofsky_.

A girl just doesn't fall much lower than that.

She needs to step it up. Whatever Brittany needs, whatever Brittany asks of her, she’ll give it. She has to. Brittany wants certainty? She wants her to put on a shirt and dance with her? She’ll get it.

It’s a decision she’s been working on for a long time, but right now, when Brittany’s sparkling eyes meet hers from the stage, lighting up instantly…when she leaps off the edge and comes barreling over chairs until she reaches Santana’s side, hands waving with the high of putting on such an energetic show…that’s when she swears to herself to do what she should have made happen years ago.

Santana Lopez will get the girl. She’ll get her if she has to out every gay in this school to do it. She’ll get her if every morning for the rest of her high school career is peppered with slushie facials, dirt-filled lockers, and disgusting tabloid abuse from Jewfro’s infamous blog. She’ll get her, whether or not that petrified pit in her chest ever chooses to vanish for good.

She just needs to find the perfect song to do it.


End file.
